No Roses are Red
by Anastasya Debbie
Summary: 3/3/1955. Arthur was a writer with a novel about an American soldier at war in progress. Alfred was an aviator in the North Korean war, that is until an accident ruined his vision. It was thanks to Arthur's dead editor that they met to work together.
1. Serendipity

**Disclaimer**: I would love it if Himaruya decided to appear on my door at my birthday with the copyright to Hetalia as a gift. It hasn't happened yet.

**Warning:** Minor characters' death, Anti-comunism sentiment, slight racism, slight homophobe talks, bad grammar until the beta'd version is out, etc.

**A/N**: This is one of those cases where I would go: WHAT AM I DOING WRITING THIS UP. I haven't visited the States before, haven't gone to NY, has little to no knowledge about America in the fifties, and have a strong urge to procrastinate that usually stops me from writing on-going fics. Yes, I have never completed a single ongoing fic throughout my life. I just hope that this one would work. I actually love the plot, after all. The rating may go up, but I can never guess since I have never completed a real smut scene before. I tend to stop at the foreplay bit. Anyway, thanks a lot for **themadnavigator** who's the beta to this story. I'm going to replace this with the beta'd version later.

* * *

><p>I would have liked to start this story with a 'once upon a time', except that it would not fit at all. This story is not one in the slightest. I can, after all, remember the date very, very clearly. The third of March 1953. 3-3-3. I've always known that the number three is very special. It is a magical number after all. 'In a place far, far away' is not very accurate either, however neat it may sounds. New York, the United States of America is not very far from here. At least I don't think so.<p>

To start a story is very hard indeed, and I have put hours of deep thought, all for the perfect first sentence; the start of the end. The first sentences are very important after all. It determines the process the characters in said story will go through, just like the birth of a man. Oh, they will all die. But the start will determine a good portion of their said deaths, won't it? Back to the topic, I, very proudly may I add, have finally decided on the start which I dearly hope is correct.

A long time ago, there lived three strapping young men in a small, lovely house in New York. The house was painted with bright white and merry yellow, white picket fences protecting the colourful roses inside their small, yet beautiful yard which the eldest took great care upon. But there were not always the three of them in the house. Once, there were four, then three, then two. And exactly at the fourth of April 1954, there were three again.

But all of it started at the third of March, 1953. The triple three.

There were only two people in the small, lovely house.

To be frank, Arthur can't remember the exact story either. It felt like centuries ago, like it belongs in a different world entirely. But the number 'three' rings like warning bells inside his head. Again and again, echoes, filling the empty space. The first date that was written on the research notes for one of his books, about an American soldier who went to a war and should have died there ('should have', because in the end Arthur did not have the heart to kill the golden boy after all), screams importance to Arthur. Pulsing, shimmering on the moth-eaten pages of tens of years worth of time.

He remembered his German editor, a few weeks from then. It was when his other work, 'Serendipity', hit the bookstores. The tenth of February.

He remembered going into the publishing company like he has done quite frequently. He also remembered being led by the meak Italian assistant of his editor even though he surely did not need any help finding the man's office. He opened the fine wooden door, and there he found the man sat behind his desk. Hands folded on the desk and eyes trained on him as if he has long expected him to come from that door. "Good morning, sir Kirkland." Said the burly man, still as polite as ever. He must have offered him a seat, and a cup of tea, because the next thing Arthur remembered, he was already sitting on the leather couch in his editor's office, the Italian secretary bringing him a cup of steaming tea with a shaky smile. Ludwig, his editor, also congratulated him for his book somewhere in the conversation, although he can never be sure where exactly.

Ludwig's icy blue eyes were firm, staring deep into Arthur's emerald ones, making the British man uneasy throughout the conversation. He remembered the air to still be cool and pleasant remembering the time of the year, but the fan on the wall behind the man was turned on. The fan whirred and whirred, and Arthur found the perpetual sound to be almost irritating. It must have been a Tuesday or a Thursday, he noted, because the tea that he sipped was Darjeeling instead of Earl Grey or Mint.

He did not take any notes during their conversation, so Arthur is now clueless as to how exactly their conversation went. He regrets never paying real attention to what the other man says. Ludwig asked him to write a book, that is for sure. A book about war, he said at that time. About an American soldier who went to the war and died protecting his country. He remembered scoffing and asking the man why he wanted him to write such a book. The man starred deep into his eyes, even harder than he already had been since the start of their conversation. Ludwig has always been like this since their first meeting, and Arthur found himself to be wondering why on earth that this man chose the literature business to be his career. He could pass as such a brilliant, menacing soldier. Arthur still remembers his answer. Still do and probably to the grave.

"I'm German, sir Kirkland, and you know that our American friends are not so kind to us after the Great War, more so after the second. No matter how sorry I am for the cruelty my country had projected, I can't say much for I will always love my home country. Just as much as you love your England. But that does not mean that I harbour any kind of hatred towards this country, sir. Just as the rest of the people who seeks protection and shelter under the great eagle's wings, I too, have learned to love this country as much as fellow Americans. I want people to know that. I'm still German by heart, but my home is here."

The next morning the editor and his assistant were found dead with bullet wounds on their heads.

But that Friday, Ludwig's albino brother Gilbert who was a very rude and uncouth man of twenty-seven, rung Arthur up. His little brother Peter had picked up the phone and gave it to him with a muttered 'jerk Arthur'. West had contacted a soldier who just went home from the war, the albino man said. And before Arthur managed to ask him who 'West' was, he continued on. "He said his name is Alfred, or something, which really sucks since that name is nowhere as awesome as Gilbert. He's an aviator who just came home from the war. The awesome me can't remember which war it is, but it must not be awesome enough for me to remember. More point of unawesomeness. An explosion or something ruined his eyesight, so he got sent home. Ha! Lame."

And that was when Arthur remembered Ludwig and his book. Apparently Ludwig had arranged a meeting for him and the aviator at a cafe in Manhattan, near the aviator's flat. Arthur screamed at Peter for his notebook and a pen, which was answered with a "Why should I, jerk?" and the desired notebook and pen. He wrote down the address. Now the words on the piece of paper are ruined with age and tears, and Arthur can't recognize the writings anymore. But he used to glance at the address again and again as he watched the space where his golden boy fell asleep by his side. He asked the German man (Prussian, the albino man corrected him somewhere along their phone call. Germany is not as awesome) of what he would do now that Ludwig isn't there. The other man paused for the first time in their conversation.

"I will move back home."

And he cut the line.

Tuesday. The third of March 1953 was a Tuesday. Of that, he was sure. The 'Brown Coffee' only serves scones at Tuesday, and that was what Arthur ordered. He remembered waiting for a very long time, sitting there while listening to the record of a Bebop song which title he can never remember for the life of him. As a gentleman, he had arrived at their meeting place fifteen minutes earlier than their scheduled meeting, but the man was nearly an hour late. He regretted not bringing Peter along.

Someone stood in front of him. And as he lifted his head to see what it is that blocked the sunlight, he was greeted by the bluest eyes under thick glasses and the widest grin he has ever seen. The man's cheeks were chubby and red, tanned skin glistening under a thin layer of sweat. The slight pants in his breath were evidence that he had been running to this place. "Hey, mate! You're that writer guy, ain't cha? M'name's Alfred F Jones, at your service!"

The thick southern accent and grammar-butchering annoyed Arthur. Most of all, though, he was irritated at the American's obnoxious choice of clothing: a bomber jacket over a simple white shirt. But he then remembered that this bloke here was actually helping him without any sort of payment. 'Just order him some damned doughnuts and a mug of coffee.', he remembered Gilbert said. So he cleared his throat and motioned for the American to sit in front of him, of which the sunny blonde eagerly complied. Arthur offered his hand for a shake, and he smiled politely. "Good afternoon, Mr. Jones. My name is Arthur. Arthur Kirkland. Pleased to make your acquaintance." The American stared at him without blinking for a few seconds, and it worried Arthur if there was something wrong with what he said. It was his turn to stare at the other man unblinking when he suddenly threw his head back in a laugh. The blue-eyed man's laughter shook the room in its strength, resulting in quite a lot of pairs of eyes to be directed to their seat. After his laughter died down, he grabbed the British man's outstretched hand in a deathly grip. "No need to be so uptight, man! Just Alfred's okay. Just loosen up, won't cha?" he winked at Arthur.

Arthur coughed, willing the angry blush on his cheeks away. "Yes, yes, quite. But it would be more easy for me to 'loosen up' if we know each other more, won't I? Now, if you don't mind, tell me about yourself, Mr. Jones." He said as he made a gesture at the waiter to bring him the menu. The man grinned widely, the dim light from the cafe's lamps reflected on his shiny white row of teeth.

"Ya see, I came from Dallas, Texas. When my mom was young, she…"

Alfred came from Dallas, Texas. His mom was a local, daughter of a farmer on the outskirts of town. His father was a traveller, visiting various places at the states after he got kicked out by his dad for some 'family problems'. Long story short, he set eyes on the shy southern girl and hung up his travel boots permanently. Alfred was born and raised there from the fourth of July 1931 to the eighteenth of June 1948. He went away to sign up for a role in the army, he said. He has always dreamed of joining the air-forces. His family were farmers, and they got hit very badly from the Great Depression. Living life in poverty, his parents has always taught him to enjoy what he had. They had little money, so one morning in 1939 his father left his family to join the army for 21$ a month to never set foot onto their porch ever again. A Japanese submarine, 1941, brought down their ship and his father with it. Arthur (and he is ashamed of admitting this) suddenly had an image of a captain, shouting "I will go down with this ship!" as his wooden ship sinks down into the cold, murky seawater.

When he left, a part of his mother went away with him; and when he died, that part died with him too. It got so bad that after his father died at war, he and his brother Matthew were practically the ones who ran the farm, even when they were both just 10 years old. The American said out the name of his brother in such fashion, that it seemed as if he just remembered that his brother even existed. How someone could forgot about his own (twin) brother until so far into the story was beyond Arthur.

It was when Alfred was in the middle of a story about how a bull once chased him around the farm because he forgot and put on a red shirt for work, that a couple of men sat on the table beside the two, distracting him. He glanced at the group of men in worker's uniforms for a fraction of seconds before he redirected his gaze to an old, battered watch on his wrist, and clicked his tounge in disappointment.

"Seems I've got no time left, Artie! Gotta go now! It's nice meeting ya." His blue eyes were filled with genuine apology, and Arthur smiled politely at him and shook his hand. The American's hand was rough and caloused from years of hard work, and he found himself believing the man's story so far. "It was nice talking to you, Mr. Jones." He offered a small smile. The other man flashed him that wide-grin of his that he has been showing off since the last three hours. "Hey, I kinda heard 'bout this neat place in the island that got great seafood and sandwich and the like. What d'you say 'bout goin' there next time? Saturday, next week, eleven?"

Arthur thought of the offer for a bit. His neighbours are usually staying at their home at Saturdays―hopefully they won't change their plans next week, and he supposed he could ask them to watch an eye on Peter. He gave another polite smile and nodded in acceptance. The man grinned at him again, say something alongside of 'Great! See ya!' and ran out of the cafe. The American kept flailing his arms around, waving a rather obnoxious goodbye even as he raced down the street. Arthur kept his polite, strained smile intact. It was only after the other has disappeared from his sight for a few good seconds that he let go of a small sigh. The man gave him a good view of what kind of a story he would later write, but he strayed off-topic too often for his liking. Talking to the man was like talking to a child. Even Peter was not this hard.

"Hey, what are you reading?"

Arthur looked at the group of men sitting beside him, and one of them was indeed holding a newspaper. The men must have just came home from work, he thought. Then again, he has not been told about what the American is doing now that he has gone out of the forces. He supposed that could make an interesting topic for their next meeting."Nothing. Some German guy shot himself at his apartment. Apparently the chap's brother just died a few days ago or something like that."

The tea in Arthur's teacup was bitter and cold. It left an unpleasant taste in his mouth as he sipped it for the last time.

* * *

><p><strong>I would appreciate it if any reader who lives in NY or know anything about NY in the fifties (good cafes, restaurants, great singers, streets, what kind of people live in these places, slangs, popular songs, foods served at restaurants and probably the waiter's uniforms, etc, etc. Anything, really) are willing to inform me about it. It would help a lot with the writing. Oh, and please do tell me about Dallas, Texas if you know anything about it too. There are things that sites like Wikipedia and such can't explain about cities.<strong>

**I've finished chapter two, and chapter three is nearly finished. And yet I posted the first one just recently, why is that? Ask FFn and why the hell it hates me so much.  
><strong>

**RnR?**


	2. Tick, Tock, Darling

**Disclaimer:** Still not mine

**A/N:** I'm sorry for taking so long to update! Anyway, I forgot to say something before on the first chapter: this fic is actually supposed to be a Psychological/Tragedy fic. But FFn doesn't have a Psychological tag, so... yeah. I'm already done with chapter three and has started to write chapter four. This chapter was really hard to write! I had no idea what to do to fill this chapter up because what I did before writing this up was creating certain events; then I just had to think of ways to stretch time to make things realistic and how to take the story to those events. I would appreciate feedbacks about this story so I can be a better writer than before. . I am sorry for the grammar errors. The beta'ed version will come out later. Many thanks for my beta: **themadnavigator**

**Special Thanks: KyraEdenRayne, TheNinjaWangsta.**

* * *

><p>Arthur has always rendered his father a coward. He ran away with his wife and son across the pond when war finally erupted, ran away and left his own home country in deep, bubbling agony of a chaos. Arthur himself has always been and always will be true and faithful to his country, a true British gentleman by heart. And he deeply dreaded his parents' decision to leave England behind and bringing him with them.<p>

He could hear the loud crackles of the fire, the solemn wail of the sirenes, and the loud booms of the explosions filling up London's night sky; feel the sweltering heat, the sting of bruises and cuts that weren't there. He wept when he heard about the attacks on his beloved country, he pursed his lips as salty drops of tears rolls silently down his rosy cheeks and lifted his chin up high when he heard about the loses England suffered. He grew up with a radio in his room, the crackles and broken voices from the device lulling him to sleep. He thought of the beautiful buildings, of the sweet and polite people. He thought of home when he thought of London.

And he blames his father for it. His coward of a father. For running away, for being a coward. His cheeks burned in shame whenever some especially nosy American kids told him to go back to his home in England, and images of his father would flash through his mind.

When his father finally left his family, his wife with a fifteen year old son and a year old baby boy, his resentment grew into a cold hatred. A coward indeed. He watched his father's back as he sat down to tie his newly polished shoes, a deep brown overcoat wrapping his scrawny form that seems even smaller that time. His mother was inside their―her room, sitting on the bed, staring off into the empty wall. His brother Peter must be sleeping, because it was terribly quiet that morning. Arthur leaned onto the wall with his arm crossed behind the man, staring at his back as he got up. Still staring as he opened the door and the sunlight that streamed inside the darkened room blinded Arthur's eyes for a few seconds.

He never did look back.

His father always, always runs away. From his own parents in Denver, from his college, from the military, from the war, from England, and finally, from his own family.

Peter's eyes were the colour of his father's eyes, pale blue that comes rather close to gray. His mother, overwhelmed by grief and sixteen years worth of memories, refused to take care of the baby. But Arthur knew better. One real look into the boy's eyes, and he knew that they boy would grow into a fine man unlike his father. Stubborn and proud, yet kind and caring inside. He felt love and pride brimming inside his chest as he first held him in his arms.

And he was right. Peter grew up to be a stubborn boy. He had his worries, especially since his mother died. What if he can't raise the boy? What would be of the two of them? What if he runs away, just like his father and mother did? But his worries proved to be false. Peter's only eleven, yet he's already so strong and proud. He never did become the gentleman Arthur pictured he will be, and he's not the dreamy little brother he has always dreamed for. But he's brave, and Arthur loves him. Sometimes, amidst the insults and frowns exchanged between the two, Arthur would feel that he's actually loved back by the stubborn kid.

Sometimes Arthur would catch himself thinking that the boy is similar to him, and the thought would amuse him greatly.

(•ᴥ•)

That Monday Arthur was called by his publisher, saying that a man has already been assigned to be his new editor. The voice of the man over the phone sounded polite, yet it did not seem to be of someone he knew. Not like Arthur usually pays attention to people around him, but it felt weird, talking to someone about work when it's not Ludwig or Feliciano his assistant. The phone call ended shortly with a 'thank you' and 'I'll be there'. It gave out a click when he put the receiver down.

Cleaning his hand with his plain white apron, Arthur was thankful when he looked around the small house and realised that Peter was at school until around 1 p.m.

(•ᴥ•)

His new editor was a man of average height, with dull blonde hair and dark brown eyes. The man was polite, he remembered. Far more relaxed than Ludwig was yet somehow managed to be more boring. The man mentioned his name, yet Arthur quickly forgot it. Arthur was far more interested at the tea than at the man; the tea was brewed too long, and the tea leaves were not of good quality. He would be sure of teaching the new assistant how to brew a decent cup of tea.

They talked about something unimportant, then they discussed the new book. Ludwig's book, he always dubbed it in his mind, refusing to say that it was his own. He faked a laugh, smiled politely, feigned interest and so did the other man. He knew that there will be no problem, the man promised that he would work as professionally as he can.

It was a different case with the assistant-who-couldn't-brew-a-good-tea. When Arthur stepped out of the editor's room, he noticed a young woman sitting on the previously empty assistant desk. Her rich brown skin glows a little under the dim light, jet-black hair tied back with a big red ribbon. She was reading a book, placed on her lap. He must have been the man's assistant, he thought as he passed the desk without the young woman (no, she was not yet a woman, he noted) even sparing him a glance. They did not exchange a single word, not even a look, yet somehow the girl made a strong impression on his mind.

Her name was Seychelles. It was written on her nameplate.

(•ᴥ•)

The noon is such a magical time of the day, thought Arthur as he absently watched how the sunlight would occasionally be reflected on Alfred's glasses. The light flashes and dies as the American moved his head a lot, flailing hands trying to grab one of the waitresses's attention. A young woman hurried to their table. "I want... three hotdogs, four fries and..."

Arthur droned out whatever the American said to the waitress as the list went on and on in favour of observing his surroundings. A waiter passed by their table with chips on his tray, and the scent wafted to the Briton's nose. He scrunched up his nose in distaste. There were a lot of families spending their weekend at that place, and quite a lot of them brought their kids with them. Arthur thought of his brother Peter at his neighbour's house. Hopefully it wasn't Tino's turn to cook. Or maybe he should've brought Peter here with him. Alfred doesn't seem like the type who would mind a child's presence. But then Arthur's eyes landed on an especially fat kid stuffing his face with oily chips, and he changed his mind.

" Artie, don't ya wanna order somethin'?" Alfred happily piped up, taking Arthur's attention, a huge grin permanently plastered across his face. Staring at the American blankly for a moment, he slowly shook his head. But as soon as Alfred opened his lips to tell the waitress that he was finished, Arthur quickly cut him. "Maybe a bowl of salad and a cup of tea, if you have it."

"Ya should've ordered hot dogs or burgers, yanno. They've got them decent here." Alfred said as the waitress hurried away. Arthur scoffed, but said nothing. The sun was certainly sunny that day. The taller man lifted his brows. "You don't like burgers and hot dogs?" he asked incredulously. "Of course not. How can anyone like that sad excuse for a food?" Alfred gasped in horror, and Arthur rolled his eyes at how dramatic the man was being. "But no one hates burgers! No one, I tell ya!"

Arthur thought he must have been incredibly lucky as the waitress suddenly came by and dropped Alfred's food down on the table, stopping the Briton from spewing out insults which probably might worsen their situation. He didn't want to offend the man who's helping him after all. That's not something a proper gentleman would do. The American was captivated by the enticing food glowing in all their oily glory in front of him (or at least, enticing to Alfred anyway). Arthur hoped the salad would at least be slightly better. Oh no, someone up there must have hated him, he thought as the taller man began to open his mouth even as he chew.

"Burgers are awesome, yanno. Hot dogs are too. Nah, actually, all American food's awesome 'cos America is just awesome! I remember I had my first burger..."

Alfred likes―no, loves― no, downright adores burgers. Actually, he harbours such an overwhelming level of fascination towards all American food. Burgers just has this special place in his heart. He, Arthur jokingly thought to himself, might not mind it if someone forced him to marry a burger. He had his first burger when he was very young. He couldn't remember at what age he really was, but he knew that he had enrolled in school already at that time. It was when they took a trip to Brookings, South Dakota. His grandpa had said that visiting Brookings meant that they absolutely had to visit the home to Nick's Burgers. Alfred's grandpa liked to eat at Nick's a lot, but Alfred had never ate a burger nor visit there before. His grandma had always forbid his grandpa from taking them to eat 'that unhealthy food'.

They went on his summer holiday. Grandma was away, visiting her sister in Tucson so there was no one to stop his grandpa from taking him away. In their blue pick-up, there were his grandpa and him, and there must be someone else because he remembered quarelling quite a lot. It was his twin, Matthew, and once again he gasped out his name as if surprised. The journey was nice and fun, his grandpa and him singing country songs all the way. His grandpa told him of his experience back on the Great War. He kept repeating the same story, though. About how dangerous the trenches were, and how one of his commander (who was a bit of an asshole, he admitted) got shot by one of his boys. Everyone thought that the commander was shot by the enemy, but Alfred's grandpa knew. He just kept quiet. He then ranted about how dangerous these new weapons are, about how the men had it easier to kill and be killed at the second war.

They went all the way to South Dakota. They visited a lot of places, and it was all beautiful. His grandpa was always a true adventurer. They went on a lot of holidays touring all over the states years after that, and he vaguely remembered visiting the Niagara falls and even reaching Canada once, but he couldn't remember which one was at which tour.

Anyway, he remembered that the shop was placed on a busy road, and that it was very crowded inside. They had to wait to buy a few burgers, and his grandpa bought quite a lot. One burger only cost ten cent at the time. Then, because Matthew felt uncomfortable eating at such crowded place, they decided to eat inside their pick up. They rushed inside, Alfred giggling all the way in excitement. Once they got inside, his grandpa told them to open the wrapers, but not all the way. Alfred stared at the meat under lettuce and buns, and the scent of it was so delicious that it made him drool. He wondered if the burger was as delicious as what his grandpa had said. He took a bite, and it was heavenly.

The meat was delicious. Crispy, yet juicy at the same time. The vegetables were fresh, and it evened out the taste. The buns were sweet and soft. Alfred kept on and on, describing the taste of the burger with great exaggeration. Arthur droned him out once again. He thought he heard something about 'angel's kisses' and 'magic dust'. It was until the sky started to turn orange and the sun an angry red that Alfred stopped his ramblings. He paused for a while, blue eyes starring off into a point in the sky that Arthur couldn't see. The right side of his glasses reflected the orange light so much that Arthur could only see his left eye. "Noon's such an awesome time of the day." He said before turning his head to face Arthur, flashing that boyish grin of his. "It's shiny and warm and everyone's movin'. I like it."

Arthur smiled to his teacup.

* * *

><p><strong>I still need any information and criticism you can throw at me. I promise I will update chapter three shortly.<strong>

**RnR?  
><strong>


	3. Goodbye to Winged Children

**Disclaimer:** OH HIMARUYA PAPAAAA~

**A/N:** Finished chapter four in a fucking day *fistpump* But I couldn't post because FFn was being a jerk and I couldn't log in. ;w; Anyway, thank you for the reviews!~ I ate them all with glee, and they were delicious! Again, let's wait for my awesome girl of a beta: themadnavigator, before we can read the less failage version of this fic.

**Special Thanks:** **FalalalaLa** (Thank you so much! Don't worry, the editor is not supposed to be recognized. He's not a Hetalia character, and I don't like adding recognizable OCs to fics. I wish I could've sent you a longer thank you message. ;_;)**,** **The Ninja Wangsta, Patrich11**

* * *

><p>Seychelles was a hard headed, annoying young girl. She refused to listen to Arthur's lecture on how to make a good cup of tea. Ludwig's assistant before didn't complain, and Arthur definitely could not understand why she would not do the same! (The man did, however, cower and tremble a bit as Arthur ranted, and downright wailed as he told the Italian that his tea-brewing skill was terrible)<p>

She was named after the country she was born at, she told him one day after he had told her about England. Seychelles was a beautiful country, she said. She could see the blue seawater embracing the white bed of sand, sliding up gently over and over again. She remembered the beach as far as she knew. That was where her farthest memory could go. The seawater was cool and soothing as it rushed forward to wet her tiny toes. She was raised by the scent of freshly cooked fish on her table, the hisses of clear seawater sliding against white sand, and a gentle lullaby that she could only recall the tune of.

Seychelles loved Seychelles. To her death, she would always love it. It was home, it's always home no matter where she lives. Her heart never did leave, she told Arthur. At night, when she's about to sleep, she heard the hisses of clear seawater sliding against the white bed of sand, smelled the salty, clean air; and there the clear blue water that hugs the white sands would stretch on to the horizon under her eyelids.

She missed the fishermen, fishing with small ships and a spear. She missed her orphanage (home, she stressed to Arthur), the laughter and cries of children her age, and the touch of clean sand under her feet and between her toes.

"But, you see, children always dreams of the future. The adults instil this thought in them. Of how the future would be so bright, of how changes would surely be welcomed, of how bad it is to stay the way you are. Everyone got to change. And that's wrong. Sometimes, it's better for things to stay the way they are. Changes are good, but not all of them. This is why a lot of children are miserable. They change so much that things change and they grew into living lies, and the future they were promised was nothing but lies itself. And then they would grow into bad adults, adults that are sad, and disappointed and bitter. They would envy the young and wish for the clock to tick the wrong way. And then, they would teach the children the wrong thing too so that they would grow into bad adults just like them." She whispered to him as he passed by her desk.

One day, a French man came to her orphanage by the beach. The children were terribly fascinated by this new man. They wanted to meet him, to touch his silky smooth and pale skin, and pull on his fair golden hair and prickly goatee. To them, this man was more interesting than the really big fish that got stranded on their beach, or the men on the market with their shiny beads and colourful things. One of the girls there had a bead necklace once. It was nice and shiny and so colourful that the children vowed to protect it. It was the treasure kept by the kids, and they hid it in a special place near the reefs. One day, a very young boy from the village found it and thought that it was his to keep. The boy and his friends, and the kids from home fought and ended up breaking the beautiful necklace. Everyone cried for days. They kept the beads, though. The girl who had it gave the beads away, so everyone had a piece. Seychelles smiled and opened her locket. Inside, there was a fading black and white picture of a man with flowy hair and a goatee, and a shiny red glass bead that was no more than a quarter centimetre wide. She showed it to Arthur.

"The man spoke to our mother" she said. And by their mother, Arthur figured that she must have meant their caretaker. "They talked inside the office while we were shooed away to our rooms. We were never allowed to go inside the office. Only grown-ups went inside."

The children pressed their little hands on the doorway, trying to hold the door from opening up too much, and to keep at least a tiny gap for them to peek through. Seychelles was pressed between a younger boy and an older girl. She almost couldn't see what happened, but there was a gap between the feet of the children in front of her. So she crouched down to look.

The man was smiling, and so did her mother. They were chatting, and Seychelles thought that he must have been mother's old friend. But then theirmother seemed to have realised that they were there, and she apologized shortly to the man before marching to the door. The children had run away and hide by the time she slamed the door open.

The clock struck two, and Seychelles stopped her story. Turning her head, she stared blankly outside the window to the coffee shop they were in. The voices that filled the busy coffee shop seemed to be coming from somewhere far away, as if it was out of this world to Arthur. Seychelles's cup of coffee was left untouched. The white foam on top of it has died down a few minutes ago. "Lunch break's over. I'm going back." She whispered, as if to herself. Arthur watched her over the teacup he's been sipping his Chamomile tea from. Then after a few long minutes, the girl got up from her seat. She smiled politely to Arthur. "Nice talking to you, Kirkland."

(•ᴥ•)

That night, when Arthur closed his eyes and started to drift off to sleep, he thought he could see a huge bed of white sand embraced by the blue sea that stretched out far into the horizon. A little girl of five or six was running off from his right to the shore. Her naked feet planted tiny footprints on the beach. And she was running, running. The wind blew her brown hair and pale blue dress back and she kept on running.

Arthur remembered smiling before sleep whispered its magical mantra and whisked his consciousness away.

(•ᴥ•)

This particular day, Arthur somehow remembered very, very clearly. Even down to the smallest details. He does not know how that happened since that day was a pretty regular one, but isn't that how it has always been with human's memories? It has always been a mystery. A great, perhaps insolvable secret nearly as huge as the secret of existence itself. At least to Arthur, that is. People somehow can remember minor things with great detail; one of the regular days at the park, the feel of the wind blowing against your face as you open the window to the train you've always been riding to work every day, a family dinner together with all the conversations. Somehow, it is the usual things that people unconsciously hold dear inside their hearts. And for Arthur, it was a visit and the phone call that came at the same time.

Arthur paced around the room. The sound of the soles of his newly polished shoes padding against the floor filled the room together with his intelligible murmurs and groans. He did not expect the event to turn this way before! Peter was sitting on their sofa, glaring daggers at the teacups and teapot beautifully ornamented with carvings of the English rose. He swung his feet back and forth, back and forth. It made the old sofa creak loudly over and over again, as if begging to be spared. Arthur occasionally took a glance at him. "You should've told me that his brother will be visiting with him again!" he said exasperatedly at the younger boy.

Peter pouted. "You know you wouldn't let Raivis come over if I've told you before, jerk!" he shouted angrily. Arthur sighed as he started pacing around the room again. Peter's glare intensified and Arthur expected the tea inside the teapot would start boiling sometimes soon. Arthur was feeling guilty, very much so. After all, there were some truth in the little boy's words. No, not only some truth. It was perfectly true. But Arthur is a very, very proud man, you see. It is already a trait of his that would not go away. Later on, a man would tell him that it is part of his charm―but at this time it's just something that caused people to stay away from him. "Still, you know that you should've told me beforehand!" he retorted. He quickly stole a glance at Peter, and he saw that the boy was biting his lips. In guilt, he assumed.

"What is it that's so bad about Ivan anyway? He's nice!" he snapped, his face red with anger and his thick eyebrows scrunched together. Somehow Arthur thought that the boy's expression must have been alike to his own when he is angry. But then the boy looked away once more; eyes filled with guilt as he nibbled at his own lower lip again. "Well, not really... B- But you know what I meant!"

Arthur sighed again, his index finger and thumb kneading the bridge of his nose. Peter was right once more. Ivan had never done anything wrong (yet) and he had been nothing short of friendly since he moved in with his four sisters and brothers. He thought of how every morning the Russian man would flash him a cheery smile and a wave of hand while the bigger man would sharpen his knife on his yard. Or maybe the talks about how pleasant his job is as a butcher, how the workers keeps the knife very sharp so that it can glide easily against flesh; or maybe his side job as a plumber and how much he loves the cold, strong steel pipes and the voice it makes when he hits it repeatedly. Arthur shivered.

"Why can't Katyusha come instead?" Arthur remembered Katyusha, the eldest sister in the family. She was the one who visited their house at the first day of their stay with a jar of biscuits in hand. She said something about hoping to be good neighbours, but honestly Arthur did not listen. And no, he most definitely did not get distracted by the sheer size of those 'bubbles' on her chest. Arthur is a perfectly respectable gentleman with a perfectly respectable mind, thank you.

But something that Arthur has learnt in his life, is that everything bad would come faster if people talk about it. It happens all the time. And just as Peter opened his mouth to retort, someone rang the bell. Peter turned his head to look at Arthur, blue eyes widening in shock. Just as Arthur was actually going to pull out his ash-blonde hair in panic, something amazing happened.

_Ring-ring-ring. Ring, ring, ring_ the phone went, and Arthur thought that he had never heard something so beautiful before. He looked at Peter and saw how the boy's eyes widened even more as realization hit him. Arthur **smiled**. "Go get the door, lad."

Peter glared. He glared really, really hard at Arthur. And Arthur would've found it surprisingly intimidating if only he was not too glad to care at that time. "Go on, open that door." Arthur encouraged him in a sweet voice. The creases between the younger boy's thick eyebrows deepened, but he finally relented and marched to the front door angrily.

Arthur bolted to his study.

Luckily, the phone was still ringing angrily when he slammed the wooden door opened, impatiently screaming to be answered. And answer the call Arthur certainly did. He let a rare smile slip onto his face as he hooked his fingers around the receiver and pressed it to his ears. "Good evening, Kirkland's residence here."

"_Artie? Hey, it's Alfred! How're y__ou__ doin__'__?"_

Arthur blinked. Well, he surely did not see that coming. "Alfred?" he asked, surprised "How did you get my telephone number?" Alfred laughed from the other side of the phone, and somehow it sounded far and near at the same time. That's how technology is, he supposed. _"That Gilbert dude gave me your number when he called me before, yanno . He said the Ludwig guy went away or somethin' like that, so he had to call me instead. Pretty cool guy, if y__ou__ ask me. Jus' not__ as __ awesome." _ Arthur scowled. Well, no one sure did bother to ask permission from him first. _"Jus__t__ noticed… He's never called me since__ you met me__. Yanno why?"_

Arthur went quiet. He could faintly hear muffled conversations from the guest room. His study was quiet, perfectly the way he purposely designed it to be. The sunlight that streamed in from the yard was filtered by a thin white curtain, yet somehow he could feel the warmth on his pallid skin. It was a soothing warmth. Arthur closed his eyes, and he thought he could hear a bird singing a song outside. A Robin? But it was impossible, considering how late into the day it was.

"_Artie?"_

Arthur opened his green eyes. It gleamed slightly under the light. He smiled patiently. "I heard he eventually went with his brother." He could hear Alfred let out a sigh of relief. _"Awesome. I was kinda worried for __h__im. With the whole war thing, no one can ever tell if a commie's gonna jump from a shrub an__d__ kill ya!" _A loud laugh "_Let me guess, his bro's that uptight Ludwig guy?"_ It was Arthur's turn to laugh, or chuckle anyway. "Yes, yes, he is. But that matter aside, I am curious as to your motive for calling me?"

"_Oh, yeah! That, I kinda remembered somethin__g__a__bout my brother. I felt I gotta tell __you__ since I know I'm going to forget it soon."_ Arthur chuckled again. He sure is having a nice mood today. Or maybe it's just because he managed to evade awkward, scary conversations with his neighbour? He reached for the small notebook placed on top of his desk and a ballpoint. Drawing back the wooden chair he has spent hundreds of hours writing on, he sat and made sure he had been sitting in a comfortable position. "Shoot away, boy."

Alfred laughed._ "Well, it's not always fights and laughs together with Mattie, yanno. After dad died…"_

After her husband died in a horrible accident out in the cold sea, the twins' mother turned as dark and cold as the ocean that swallowed her husband with hundreds of fellow navies at war. The warm, loving side of her that had became nothing but a lingering shadow when the man left then turned into a gaping, dark hole that swallowed all. She's not in the right mind, people said. And it was true. One day she dunked Matthew's head into the milk tank. Push inside, then pull out, push inside, then pull out. Rinse and repeat.

She did not hear the cries and pleads of her son, did not sense the fear and sorrow that Matthew felt. All the time she was screaming in burning anger and agony, screaming and shouting as if Matthew was their father. He is dead, she screamed. You are dead! Drowned! And she kept on pushing Matthew's head inside the tank of milk while her son slowly began to drown. No mom! No! Let me go! Dead, dead! You are dead, darling! No, mommy! Mom! No! Drowned! Now drown like you're supposed to be! Drown!

And then Alfred who heard someone shouting ran around the corner. His lower half was drenched with the milk inside the bucket that he held in his right hand. And he stared, and stared, and stared. Oh god, what happened. MOM WHAT ARE YOU DOING? And their mother stopped and let go of her son's golden hair. Strands of it stayed between her fingers, and she didn't even bother to rub them off. Matthew fell as soon as the only thing holding his head disappeared. He barely managed to hold himself away from drowning with his shaking hands. Alfred still stared and stared and stared, his blue eyes widened in horror.

Then their mother turned her head and **smiled.** She **smiled** at Alfred.

And the smile was so warm and happy that it seemed like the mother they had before their father went away, and in good days before their father died was back. But no, she didn't. She went away and she never is going to be back. And that was what made it so scary, so revolting. This woman, Alfred thought, was most certainly not their mommy. Not anymore. Yet the smile reminded him again and again, that yes, this was once her.

'Alfred, honey, what are ya doin'? Aww, sweetheart, your shirt's all wet.' she gently said, brows a little furrowed in worry as she noticed the dripping jeans he was wearing. Her voice was so sweet and warm, and it brought tears to his eyes because he can still see Matthew gasping for breath and coughing and puking out milk and crying behind her. He could feel warm droplets of tears dripping from his chin, and he couldn't stop it.

Then their mother smiled up at him as if she just realised something. 'Why don't we get ya a pair of nice, dry jeans, honey? And we can have some cookies while we dry you off, hmm? I'm sure gramma left a jar or two when she came yesterday.' The woman got up and brushed dirt and splashes of milk mixed with puke from her dress, but it only caked the dirt and create ugly smears all over her clothes. She clicked her tounge. Alfred tensed, bracing himself for something―something that was going to happen―when she started to walk up to him. But then she just passed him by and rounded the corner that Alfred came by.

Then Alfred let out a sob. A tiny one bubbled out from his throat, and once one came out, a string of others followed. He was a sobbing loudly as he walked over to his twin and supported him against his own shoulder, they were both wailing all the way as he walked them both to their neighbour's house. Alfred didn't even realise that he was gripping the handle of the milk bucket in his right hand all those time until the nice old lady next door made him let go of it.

A few minutes later the policemen came to take their mom away.

Alfred paused his story, and so Arthur waited. The crackles of the phone line filled his right ear, and his left caught muffled chatters from the main room. _"...I'm sorry"_ it was a very faint whisper, barely audible. And it puzzled Arthur greatly at the time. Why would Alfred need to apologize to him? It's supposed to be Arthur who told him that. Arthur opened his mouth, but before he managed to get any words out, Alfred cut him. _"I'm sorry for lying earlier, Artie."_

And then it dawned on him, and he pursed his lips. Because he understood what Alfred had been lying about, and he was not mad about it. Because then he knew no one would ever be able to forget such a thing.

But he decided to wait for Alfred to continue with his story instead of telling him that. And so seconds passed until he started again.

"_Th__e next morning__ gramma and grampa rushed to home..."_

The next morning their grandparents rushed to their home―the farm that they left for his grandma's dream house in New Orleans once their daughter got married and had a husband who was capable of taking care of the land. Their grandpa must have broken a few speed limits with how worried they looked like when they arrived at the neighbour's house. They cried, and so were Alfred and Matthew when they saw each other. 'It's gonna be okay, sweethearts. It's gonna be all okay.' They whispered to the boys' ears. At that time, the words felt like it was the truth.

Their grandparents took them to stay at their home. When his grandpa's truck passed by their farm, their grandparents and Matthew avoided to look at the land―only straight at the seemingly endless road that stretched far in front of them. But Alfred stared. His blue eyes stared at the place he has been brought up at for years. He saw yellow police lines scattered all over the place, and he saw police cars and policemen and women everywhere―looking busy and serious. Then he saw how blue and clear the sky was, as if it was just another day at the farm. The pigs must have been hungry, he thought. Who's going to milk the cows if he's going away? What about the calf that was just born last week? But then the blue sky reminded him of his mother's eyes, the eyes that was so warm and gentle and loving yesterday. So he cried.

The days spent in his grandparents' house felt so dull and strained. His grandpa and grandma were trying so hard to act as if nothing has ever happened, as if the boys were just having their summer holiday over. And they failed. They failed so hard. Matthew grew even more skittish and quiet. He was afraid of water, and he wouldn't drink the milk their grandma poured for him. And whenever Matthew would cry and wail and beg not to have a bath and not to have to drink the milk, their grandma would pat his head and silently leave. But then Alfred could hear the silent sobs when he pressed his ears against the door.

Alfred was also afraid of taking baths and drinking milk, but he was admittedly not as bad as Matthew was. He would still take baths just because he knew his grandmother would cry, but he would be very careful not to take baths when someone is around or at a closed space. The first time he tried drinking milk, the smell of it made him puke all over the carpet. It reminded him of how him, Matthew and his mother smelled like then. Of how the sweet, warm scent wafted in the air that hot day. And then he would cry because the smell of his puke and the burning in his throat also reminded him of how the ground and Matthew smelled like. Of how it was all very real indeed, and that it really did happen.

Their grandparents were very nice, but they were old and tired, and there is a limit as to how much they can do for a pair of broken boys. They must have called someone, must have found a number or two from the boys' father's note book, or maybe they still had some contacts; because a few weeks later a pair of old man and woman arrived at their doorstep.

They said they were Alfred and Matthew's grandparents.

But it was strange, Alfred thought, why had they never seen them before? They never came before, and they lived in **Canada.** They said that that was where their dad came from. They also said that they were coming to take their grandson with them. They tried to explain a lot of things, of how they think that it is too dangerous for the boys to live with their mother, and how their other grandparents wouldn't be able to raise them by themselves.

Then Matthew ran up the stairs, crying. Alfred didn't know what happened. He didn't understand why Matthew was crying and why their grandparents went away to the bar to leave them with these oldies claiming to be their other grandparents. Confused, he ran up the stairs and went inside their room. There he saw Matthew crying beside the bed. The smaller boy was burrying his face between his knees and sobbed.

'Matthew, why are you cryin'?' and Matthew sobbed louder and louder and Alfed had to close the door because he was somehow afraid that the oldies downstairs would hear. 'Matthew, why ya cryin'? I would miss gramma and grampa too, but they said we can visit them every summer.' But Matthew kept on crying without giving him an answer. So Alfred stepped closer. It was when Alfred stood up right in front of him, staring, that Matthew lifted his face to look at Alfred. His lavender eyes were puffy and red and the tears kept on flowing. He would have teased Matthew if they were still back in the farm, but they weren't, so Alfred kept his mouth shut.

'Don't you understand, Alfred? They're only gonna take me away.'

Alfred stared at Matthew as if he was the most ridiculous thing he has ever seen. 'What? No way! They're totally gonna take us both.' He argued, brows furrowed in annoyance and slight fear. 'No, they said they're going to take me.' Alfred's face began to grow red in anger. 'NO MATTHEW. WE'RE TWINS THEY'RE GOING TO TAKE US BOTH BECAUSE WE'RE BROTHERS. NO ONE CAN TAKE YOU WITHOUT TAKING ME. THAT'S NOT HOW BROTHERS ARE.' Then Matthew got angry as well, because Alfred was just being stupid and loud and he shouted at him. 'ALFRED, YOU'RE STUPID. OF COURSE THEY CAN. THEY SAID OLD PEOPLE CAN'T TAKE CARE OF TWO GROWING BOYS.' Then Alfred opened his mouth because he was going to retort, but he found nothing to say. So his face grew redder and redder, as if he was going to explode. Then his lips began to tremble, and his tears exploded. He started crying. He was sure that the other grandparents downstairs must have heard, but no one rushed upstairs to see what went wrong. Then seeing his twin crying like that, Matthew's own tears began to flow again. And so the both of them cried all night into the morning.

The next morning when Alfred woke up, Matthew was already gone.

* * *

><p><strong>Still waiting for information. Please?<br>**

**RnR?  
><strong>


End file.
